


Consulting, Criminals & Convoluted Caring

by CompanionToMisterHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Swap!lock, Swaplock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:44:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompanionToMisterHolmes/pseuds/CompanionToMisterHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for - uruvielnumenesse - can you do a sherlock fic, like Molly and Irene Adler are the consulting detectives? And make Sherlock the doctor in the morgue? pretty please? - Sherlolly</p><p>(The headcanon here is Molly and Sherlock are swapped. Irene has a similar past to original John, but they are not swapped, John is a mix of himself and Mike (Irene was his padre in the army) Other than that, the characters are pretty much the same.)</p><p>I got a little carried away and very excited. So this will be multi-chapter (eventual Sherlolly). I though I would write something a little less fluff and a little more case based, and about the whole story as well as the characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'The Freckled Three, Howard She Do It?'

“Sherlock, I’ll need to see the index finger of each of the three victims of the appallingly named ‘freckled eight’ case.” 

 

Molly moved deftly between the body bags leading Irene Adler and Greg Lestrade behind her. This was the last piece of evidence she needed to solve the case, or more precisely, to prove to the DI and her companion that her conclusions have validation that they are based in evidence, rather than circumstance. Why no one seemed to just trust her brilliance as truth she couldn’t comprehend, she was always right, was she not? ”I mean who names a case after the only two common traits found in the victims and not the murderer herself? So they have freckles and size eight feet, there have only been three victims, not eight.” Molly grumbled tonelessly as Sherlock unzipped each body bag and lowered the arms of the victims onto the cold metallic slabs. 

 

“Aha. See, each on the dominant hand, the index fingerprint has been removed, used in the first and second victims to ‘confirm’ the lie that these were connected suicides, a ‘pact’ you might say, as the fingerprints and points of pressure matched with the irregularity. But then our criminal gets sloppy, removing the index fingerprint, but unable to get the woman to pull the trigger herself, she had been using indirect force, blackmail and slander, but Miss… Ah…” She glanced down at the chart lying next to the lifeless body. “Miller, over here was mentally stronger, the gloved hand that had pulled force on the trigger overlapping the hands of our previous victims had made a mistake, she had left her glove of in panic as Miss Miller had dropped the gun, yes the bullet entry angle suggests suicide again, but the fingerprints on the gun, the double fingerprints, the  **index fingerprint**. Those are the prints of our killer. As you can see;”

 

Molly lifted the black plastic from the face of one Miss Grace Miller to show the small yet conclusive evidence the she was undoubtedly correct. “Here, on her neck and jaw, a slight bruising pattern, that under closer scrutiny is that of a hand, pressuring the gun to her head was one thing, preventing her from running was another. I took the liberty of my connections to gain the name of our murderer from her prints. You should arrest Caroline Howard before she strikes again. There is your evidence the ‘Howard case’ is closed.”

 

Molly put on her best smile, only partially faked, exaggerated for her own smug purposes, as Greg bustled out of the morgue his phone clutched tightly to his ear shouting orders to his team. Her smile dropped partially when he had fully left, and his voice no longer lingered in the death filled room, it dropped fully when Irene turned to her announcing that she would be titling the case ‘The Freckled Three, Howard She Do It?’ It was safe to say Molly was slightly appalled and disgusted (she had not caught onto the sarcasm in Irene’s tone as her and Sherlock giggled at the atrocious pun, Irene was a sucker for puns and her blog was a testament of that.)

 

“Come along Irene, you have a date with that detestable woman from three doors down.” 

 

“I most certainly do not.” Irene said, affronted.

 

“Oh, did I forget to mention. I invited Jessica over to 221b this evening, it’s a shame I’ve been unfortunately detained on a case that has just,” Molly’s phone beeped, as she read the text a small smirk formed on her features, “this second, come to my knowledge. Do dress yourself up, she holds a position in the CIA, and she’s more than willing to share state secrets with the right woman. Anyway, she’s been more than open toward you, she prefers classic beauty, that along with my want to avoid such tedious conversation, means this is your job.”

 

Irene drew a log and pained breath, she wasn’t stupid, years spent in the company of one Molly Hopper had ensured that, and she was well aware there was no case (although she did need to find out how Molly had received that text at the exact moment, she’d done that too many times to be coincidence). “Fine. What’s the job, and why am I doing your dirty work?”

 

“Well, Holmes the elder has requested some information, information our loose lipped friend is in possession of. I’ll text you the details when you’re ready. And you’re doing the quite aptly phrased ‘dirty work’ because I will only get bored before the information has a chance to be passed on, and you, my friend, have the feminine wiles I lack, and you’re far more gorgeous than I.” Molly held Irene’s face in her hands, pulling a little at the skin that covered her sharp features, and pulling the ‘pouty face’ that assured Molly’s victory in any menial discussion. 

 

“I think your beautiful Molly.” A strong voice sounded from the far corner, followed by a gruff cough as Sherlock continued with his work a flush creeping up his collarbone onto the pale skin of his neck. Molly had always observed his blush was never conventional. His comment did not go ignored, but Molly let him believe so as to save embarrassment.

 

“Okay, well I suppose I’m off then. Bye Sherlock. You better at least come home tonight Molly.” Irene began out the large sterile doors of the morgue, turning on her heel for a moment and leaning back into the white room. “Oh, and I’d just like to clarify. I’m only doing this so you don’t act like a petulant child Molly. I’m not gay.” 

 

“I think your university years would disagree.” Molly giggled; it was not uncommon to hear the musical noise from the small loosely clothed woman. She may have had a mind that worked a mile a minute, a morality that was occasionally ignored in the name of silence and knowledge, and the emotional security of a child on more than one occasion, but she was surprisingly and with increasing regularity human.

 

Irene stormed off, no matter how annoyed she was at Molly Hooper; she would still do her bidding. Molly Hooper spun round on the heels of her practical but stylish black ankle boots. She was wearing much the same as her usual attire, a deep blue high-waisted skirt, A-line and tight to her skin, her tights as always held discreet ladders and holes, with makeshift nail varnish fixes (she could afford new tights, and on occasion stole Irene’s but when on a case the snags were only inevitable, so a quick fix was the most her mind would allow.) She wore a baggy purple jumper, that was thick and soft, she would even hug it against her skin when no one else was looking, it was comfortable yet not shapeless and perfect for almost every occasion. Finally she still adorned her long dress coat that cinched in the waist with a belt (although she never bother to do the buttons, making a quick secure knot in the material as she left the door) its navy colour matched her skirt but the material was thick and matte.

 

“Thank you.” She said to a slightly stunned Sherlock, it was no unusual for Molly to express her thanks (when she truly meant it, even if that was a rare occasion), but the kiss she placed on his cheek was quite out of the ordinary. She was thanking him for the discreet text he’d sent her just moments ago, and even if she was loathed to admit it the kiss that had followed was in thanks for compliment he had paid her after she had persuaded Irene to do her work. She coughed slightly as she stepped back and continued, “for the text. You’re getting much better at lying to Irene when needs be, it still wouldn’t have passed me if I where in her position. You have a tell.”

 

“Go on then. What gave me away?” Sherlock Holmes may have be mildly in love with the world’s only consulting detective, she may well have been the object of his fantasies, and the most intimidating woman (nay person) he knew, but he was still able to hold his own. It was the Holmes way.

 

“Oh, if I tell you, you may just find a way to hide it. I suppose you’re clever enough. And working out the new tell will be tedious.” Molly smirked.

 

“I think there may have been a somewhat backward compliment buried in there. Thanks.” He retorted.  

 

“Yes, well. Back to work, I need to complete my thermo-nucleic homeostasis experiment. And you Mr Holmes need to write up the reports for these three again. New evidence and all that.” And like that she was gone, Sherlock caught the light smell of dust after rain that Molly seemed to embody alongside the faint residue of the expensive perfume Irene had bought for her (she hadn’t liked it much, if he remembered that conversation correctly, but her will to finish the bottle showed that glimpse of sentiment she so professed to detest) that clung to the air around him and stopped his work for a few more moments than necessary after she had left.

 

John Watson would have laughed at the dumbstruck man in the morgue, he usually did in fact. The army doctor (now teacher at St. Barts) was unsure how; expect for on a superficial level, someone could fall for Molly Hooper. She was a difficult person to be around more often than not. John could see she was aesthetically pleasing, all baggy jumpers and girl next door eyes, he’d even considered asking her out when he’d first met her, but her harsh tome had deterred him. After bumping into his ex-army padre, Irene, looking for a flat in London, somewhere filled with less memories and lighter on her army pension as she tried to find a new job, he had introduced the two, Molly Hooper brooding over a microscope had let her genius drip from each word and Irene had moved in the next day. He supposed some of the ice had lifted from Molly after this, some of her more bitter words controlled, but he still couldn’t fathom Sherlock’s obsession with the petite woman. All Sherlock knew was that Molly Hooper was a kind beautiful woman, all he was waiting for was for her to drop her mask, thankfully the cracks were beginning to show.

 

 


	2. The Right Femur

 

"Molly would you ummm… would you to have, ah, like dinner… with me?"

 

"I don't eat on a case, and you Sherlock Holmes know that; even when I do eat it's usually not a meal. I'm sure Irene would join you if you require sustenance." Molly kept her focus upon the cultures that lay under the microscope, key to the case, outside distractions weren't much appreciated, but she continued the to talk to Sherlock, she knew dismissing him would be rude. And she had no patience, no time, for Irene to be in one of her moods.

 

"Yeah, of course, just slipped my mind I suppose."

 

"Ordinary people frequently do little else than have things 'slip their mind'." Molly was now rolling her eyes; she could hear the shuffle of Sherlock's feet, a nervous tic the physical embodiment of Irene's 'not good'.

 

"Everyone is ordinary to me, do not take offense Sherlock, you are surprisingly much less ordinary than most." She turned to him, noticing the tinged pink of his skin rising from his collarbone for the first time, and smiled in a way that was probably far from comforting or real, but the best her busy mind could offer.

 

"Thanks. I guess. That's quite the compliment from you Molly Hooper. I'll return the favour, get out of your hair, text me if you need anything, I'll be downstairs pretending to finish paperwork." He smiled, Molly had always appreciated his genuine smile, a little lopsided and filled with teeth, and she couldn't help the twitch to the corner of her lips, it was involuntary, it caught her off guard, but it was not unpleasant.

 

"You're too good for paperwork, Sherlock Holmes."

 

* * *

 

"Aha. The broken right femur, common in all but two, why is it crucial?" Molly was tapping Sherlock's fountain pen on the desk, a tic, her tic, she always stole his pen. "Unless… No! Yes! Oh, that's perfect… he's  _good_. Irene, can you not see? Those  **two**  they're a copycat, working at the same time to divert attention, that's clever, but without the autopsy report our copycat could not have known about the right femur. Two murderers both so clever, but still  **so**  ordinary." Molly grabbed the sides of Irene's face, shaking her entire being, excitement buzzing from her every pore. Irene could never quite decide whether she was a fan of 'post-case Molly', too much energy, all leading to the inevitable boredom crash, and that was fatal.

 

"I must call Lestrade, the first murderer is, in fact, the man we detained in custody not three hours ago. I knew it! Why does it always take so long for you all to believe me?" Molly let out an aggravated sigh, still tinged with the bliss of another case solved.

 

"And the copycat killer?"  _Well, mostly solved._

 

"I'll need case notes all of them. And the autopsy report, Sherlock's smart enough he could have noticed something, the copycat is sloppy, it's more than likely he's left some key evidence behind. I also want to know the family history of Jack Nicoles, our original killer, any sons with low recognition, any family member who goes unnoticed by the man, ignored. It's quite clear our copycat is looking to impress our murderer, to finally be seen in the light they 'deserve'. " Molly spoke those last few words with derision, as she spun to face Irene scribbling down notes in the shorthand she'd learnt at medical school.

 

Molly also noticed a sheepish looking Sherlock in the corner, it was his lab, he had every right to just barge in and reclaim his space, but he always waited for Molly to finish. The slow smile on his face suggested he'd heard all of her previous stream of words.

 

"We best be off then, criminals to catch! Oh and Irene, I see it went well with  _Jessica_ , it appears you have another date, will she soon be the spy who shagged you?" Molly was proud of her pop culture reference, she hadn't exactly been immersed in the world at the time and was always pleased to slip them into conversation; even the death glare from Irene was worth the soft chuckle from Sherlock.

 

"Oh come on. Don't glare at me like that. It was a joke, I understand that is not necessarily where my skills lie, but I thought it quite humorous, and I see that Sherlock agrees."

 

"Don't drag me into this." Sherlock spoke over his own laughter from the corner of the room, making his way over to his stack of paperwork, and the far more interesting blood cultures he was about to examine.

 

Irene took a slow calming breath, she couldn't help but laugh that Molly had attempted humour, forgiving her instantly as she always would.

 

"C'mon then, I want this case closed sooner rather than later. I mean you haven't eaten in days  **Molls**."

 

Molly visibly shook at the nickname; she already detested her given name, Margate Anne Hooper, but there a problem had always arisen with Molly's dislike for nicknames. Her name was legally changed to Molly Anne Hooper at the age of sixteen with both her mother and father's permission, she had been called Molly since birth, even if there were a few pieces of important paper with Margate on them,  _but_ _ **Molls**_ _, she was a grown woman, that would be like calling Sherlock … Sherly!_

 

 _The nickname, best way to get my own back._ Irene thought as she saw anger bubbling behind Molly's big brown eyes.

 

"Just a joke." Irene smiled sweetly, innocently although terribly fake.

 

"You win this round Adler. And you're right, it has been three days and sixteen hours since I last ate 'properly' give or take, I may just have to take Sherlock up on his dinner offer."

 

The pair left in a flurry, too quickly to noticed the spray of Lucazade from Sherlock's mouth as he repeated and repeated Molly's last sentence.

 

* * *

 

"You can't keep playing him along, he likes you, you know."

 

The case was now finished, both the murder's having confessed and merely waiting days for the inevitable and easily called trial. Guilty. Irene wanted some gossip, or whatever it was when Molly acted less distant and cold towards a human male. She was aware Molly was straight, having actually met two of her previous 'boyfriends' over the three years they'd shared a flat. She even, rarely, oh so very rarely, check guys out, there was no other way of putting it, it was beyond the deductive glance, if she found a man attractive enough to gain her attention her gaze would always fall effortlessly to his arse. Every single time. Irene had also noticed the Sherlock Holmes has 'gained Molly's attention' on more than one occasion,  _how come the 'geniuses' are always so stupid?_

 

"Who's that then? Lestrade? I would say he likes me enough that he gives me good cases, good friend the Detective Inspector, gotten me out of a few sticky situations."

 

"No, not Lestrade. Sherlock."

 

"Well of course Sherlock likes me. We have been friends since I snuck into his medical school, pretending to be a student for supplies, and his elder brother took an interest in my mind." She held a smug grin, it was always pleasing to remember that she was essentially the British Government's fall-back.

 

"No he  **like**  likes you." Irene nudged her, winking, and feeling not unlike shed been transported back to secondary school.

 

"Don't be absurd Irene, Sherlock does not hold anything but platonic attachment to me, romantic entanglement is your area, not mine. I'm hardly any mans 'type'." She scoffed.

 

"So you're blind then, I mean I knew that you were repressing something on your behalf, but denying something that stares you blushing and stammering in the face everyday is stupid."

 

"We are just friends Irene." She exhaled sharply.

 

"Okay, okay. I won't push it any further," she said "today." under her breath.

 

"Good." Molly said through a tight smile.

 

"So where are you going out to dinner with your one hundred per cent platonic friend?"

 

"Just Angelo's." And Molly was all but gone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for me to right this, and I have a bunch of excuses if you really want to know, but I hate feeling like I've let you down. For now all I can say is sorry, and I will write more when I can :) I love you all.
> 
>  
> 
> Molly is blind, just as Sherlock usually is in non-swaplock Sherlolly. Haha.
> 
>  
> 
> I don't know what Molly's problem is, I love the name Molls, but I suppose she'd good for accepting her friendships, and generally being more open than a Sherlock based character usually is, she just looks to sweet to be cold and cruel all the time.


End file.
